


in many ways.

by beckhams



Series: motogp. — ideas. [1]
Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, Pining, sort of just maverick and how he handles the thought of not having vale as a teammate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:33:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26603023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckhams/pseuds/beckhams
Summary: it tastes sour, you must taste sour but you lick up into him in a fit of desperation, you have become all too used to the clawing sense of want, of yearning, of desperation.or, maverick tries to deal with valentino leaving.
Relationships: Valentino Rossi/Maverick Viñales
Series: motogp. — ideas. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935271
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	in many ways.

**Author's Note:**

> I literally know nothing about motogp I just find the pairing of 'younger mess that looks up to the older' and 'older that is leaving and takes care of the younger' an interesting dynamic :) it works for both charles & seb and maverick & vale. It did originally start off as seb/charles but I changed it about ¼ through bc it just felt better to do it as mack/Vale. anyways enjoy!! xx

it tastes sour, you must taste sour but you lick up into him in a fit of desperation, you have become all too used to the clawing sense of want, of yearning, of desperation.

and you were supposed to be the prince, the king, the saving grace. this was supposed to be your year, and yet you're slipping through the rankings and your bike is shutting down and its all so much, so much more than your able to take.

your shirt is a bloody red and you can almost feel your own blood spilling out of you and you want, and want and want and it's all spilling out of you with so much red liquid that your coated in it, a bright red beacon and the fans bask in it, the bright army that chants and they override your senses. 

your hands are cold, so cold that you fear you will freeze the tips of your fingers off, and you shouldn't be this cold in a hot country on a roaring hot motorbike and yet you almost feel frozen to the very core. the chill is unbearable. you catch your words on your tongue and give a slight smile at the mechanics. 

you're so frozen. 

**☆**

in many ways, you'll miss the old days. the days where it was laughing and sitting in your apartment, when you couldn't stop looking at his freckles and you couldn't help but want to taste his skin. in many ways, you'll miss his noises, his movement.

in many ways, you'll miss the italian lilt to his words and the way he would cook and float around your apartment like he belonged there. and he did, and your heart said he did. 

in many ways, you'll miss the teasing in the garage and the soft nudge to ask if you are okay, the invitations to his ranch, the shared looks of pity. 

in many ways, you'll miss the wanting, how badly you wanted to be him, how badly you wanted him. you'll miss how he smelled, how he left a piece of himself, how he handed you handwritten notes saying to meet him at his room. you'll miss how he felt, how his hands felt against your cheek. 

in many ways, you'll miss him.

**☆**

you don't know it yet, but nothing will be better than this. 

the controller is heavy in your hand and your feet are cold but this is bliss, this is everything. you don't even know the name of the game you're playing but you don't care, it's fun. 

Jack and Fabio are playing and they're having some conversations that you clicked out of a while ago. you tend to do that, you've noticed, you just... stop, almost like your brain gets overriden and has to shut down. 

but this is how it was supposed to be, you're twenty five, this is how other twenty five year olds live, and yet this doesn't feel like enough, you couldn't survive if this was _it._ and your controller runs out of batteries, and you don't bother to replace them.

you've had enough fun.

**☆**

you're hand is covered in a thick red liquid and your nose is thumping just enough for you to feel the surge of pain, its a welcomed pain, you can't quite remember anything you've done tonight, your mind foggier than it's ever been.

you somehow manage to stumble your way to the bathroom, and your nose is bleeding from when you fell, a drunken walk that had people asking if your okay with smiles and laughs that showed they didn't really care.

your hands shake as you grab a few paper towels from the container and you go through a few of them before the bleeding manages to slow down.

"hey, mave!" someone calls out behind you, you turn quickly on your heels to see them. valentino. you prefer to call him valentino to vale.

"hi."

"what happened?"

"I fell." and you sound so dumb saying it but your eyes are glassy and the room is swirling and the lights are so bright.

he takes the tissue from your hand and tosses it in the rubbish bin next to the sink. he presses his hand to your forehead almost like he's taking your temperature, before bringing it down to your cheek to press his thumbs in where your dimples would be if you were smiling. 

"come to mine, I'll clean you up."

"okay."

his hands are warm and your mouth is dry.

**☆**

the pillows smell of him, of his cologne, of his sweat. the whole house looks like him, with wooden floors and high ceilings, it all makes sense in a way, for him to live here.

you stay there for a few days, all a drunken haze.

and when he finds you puking your guts up after a bad race, he kneels down and rubs circles on your back, whispering about how he understands, how he _gets_ you. 

and it feels vile to know he's gone through the pain and the wanting and he's come out alive when you can barely get up in the mornings. 

the wanting keeps you up at night, makes you pick at your skin until it bleeds and the blood is so red and bright and you _want_. you want to win so badly its ruining you from the inside out, so badly you might die simply from the wanting. 

and he presses a kiss to your cheek when your on the brink of passing out, laying on the bed facing you, you can barely feel it, too out of place to really feel _anything_. 

his hands burn your cold skin. 

and you'll miss him, him and all his heat. 

**☆**

the park is broken down with chipped wood and bent plastic and you are sitting on the swings, legs dangling while the chain of it creaks when you swing. and he's sitting next to you. 

the park is cold, so cold you pull your jumper tighter. 

"I'll miss you, maverick, I hope you know that." he whispers, because of course he doesn't need to speak any louder. 

"I'll miss you too."

and his hand comes out to touch your shoulder but instead he leans in. 

he tastes more bitter than you imagined. 

**☆**

your mouth feels stuffed full of cotton wool, you can't get a word out, tongue heavy and it will choke you, the cotton will choke you, but you want to say something, you want to reach out and say _anything_ , but you're choking.

_stop, please no more, I can't take the pain of you leaving me. stay, stay with me. please._

but of course you don't say it, heart too scared and he's covering your mouth with his and you catch the words on your tongue, not wanting to ruin the moment. 

would it be rude of you to beg, to ask for so much more than you have, or is that greedy and vile? would it be rude to want more than you can handle? would it be awful to want the pain you ought to avoid?

and he tastes so much better because you shouldn't touch him, he tastes so much better because you shouldn't be tasting him at all. 

champagne tastes bitter on a podium, and he tastes so bitter that you bite your tongue. 

his hands burn your skin. 

he tastes so much better because you shouldn't have him at all, he should be slipping out of your grasp but instead you hold on tighter and tighter and he never leaves, his mark is so imprinted it must be on your bones, they must say his initials. 

you'll miss how he tastes. 

you'll miss him. 


End file.
